


Quintessential

by sachi_sama



Category: South Park
Genre: Anxiety, Coffee Shops, Depression, Gift Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-02-16 20:53:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2284164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sachi_sama/pseuds/sachi_sama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tweek stands, looking uncertainly up at him. “What do I look like?”</p><p>“Like you're a fucking mess.”</p><p>Craig never was one for sugarcoating things. It's one of the reasons Tweek always liked him so much.</p><p>“Y-You're not wrong,” Tweek says.</p><p>“I'm never wrong.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quintessential

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive me, it's my first South Park story, so everyone just bear with me. Also warnings for depression and anxiety. I'm repeating again for the sake of reiteration, but I want to make sure everyone knows this.

It's the usual Sunday morning hustle and bustle that gets it started—that resonating feeling in his chest, that familiar clenching. He knows it's not going to be a good day almost as soon as it starts, which would be a new record if not for the fact that he can tell _most_ days will turn to shit as soon as they start. He's used to it by this point, this meaningless existence in this podunk mountain town. 

Tweek does the normal routine, grinds all the beans, gets the extra filters full of coffee so he won't have to do that during the rush. The church crowd is coming soon for their coffee, and for people so obsessed with Heaven, they're certainly  _hell_ to deal with. The churchgoers are the snarky ones, the ones so sure they can act how they want to Monday thru Saturday, as long as they can apologize for it on Sunday. The thought alone makes Tweek sigh for what must be the umpteenth time, another usual noise for Sunday—well, fuck that. It's an  _everyday_ sound. Tweek sighs most of the time, he thinks. Sometimes it's the best way to express his feelings. 

His father is in the back, cleaning, he said. His mother is at home, unable to be bothered by the rest of the world. In their household, everything is holistic and natural, aside from their mounds of prescription pills. The Tweak family each has their own shit to deal with, but Tweek thinks he was given the short end of the stick. Each time he goes to the doctor, they seem to find something else wrong with him. And the old routine of “Talk to me, I'm only here to help,” gets old really fast, especially to someone who hears it most of the time.

Tweek used to think, optimistically, that he turned out pretty well for someone who grew up in such a backwards town. But then high school was over, and everyone was able to shake off their troubled pasts and move forward with their lives. Most of them went out of state. Tweek doesn't keep in touch with anyone on the regular, but it's not always from lack of trying. Some days, he can't being himself to answer. And then those days will turn to weeks, and then to  _months_ . And now somehow he hasn't talked to Craig, Token, or Clyde in a  _year_ . And the worst part about realizing that has been the mental lectures he gives  _himself_ over the matter. But even so, what's he supposed to say? That he's the same person he was in high school? That everyone changed and he can't change with them? No thanks, he'd rather keep his mundane lifestyle to himself and at least save some dignity.

Most days though, he just thinks he's being immature. Especially when their letters and emails pile up.

It's something about these thoughts and the trickle of early bird customers that throw off his entire routine that gets his hands shaking. Sometimes his routine is all he has to keep him going, and they're breaking it, they're  _breaking_ it and can no one see how close he is to falling apart most days, jesus—

The door jingles again and he's so close to snapping, but he holds it. Just takes the order, makes the coffee, wears a smile so fake it shouldn't pass for “okay” the way it does. But it always passes because the only one who really asks how he feels is his psychiatrist and that isn't the way it should be. His parents care in their own twisted way, he likes to think. They just like to pretend everything is okay and part of pretending is never mentioning the problem. If it's not public, it isn't a problem, his mom likes to say. But Tweek knows neither of them could possibly miss the way the entire _town_ knows he's a fucking wreck.

No, no—stop this train of thought. He needs to think about something else before he has a panic attack. _Everything will be alright_ , people always say. But what does being 'alright' entail? When will he know he's alright, when everything stops happening at once?

“Tweek,” someone says. He turns sharply to see his dad standing there with his usual post-morning-coffee-and-medication-serene smile. “You're shaking more than usual today.”

And like that makes anything better, to hear the “more than usual” part tacked to the end. If he wasn't such a mess that wouldn't be how everyone saw him—always an emotional disaster but even _more so_ today.

“I'm f-fine,” Tweek says, an automatic response that was drilled into his head.

“Why don't you go have some fresh air?” his dad asks. “Maybe drink some coffee. I can handle things for now.”

For now, meaning until the rush comes in after church and then he'll be needed back at his normal post. But Tweek will take what he can get, even if it means only a few minutes of solitude.

He all but runs to the back, opting to use the exit behind the store instead of the front so there won't be any people to intercept him. Behind the store is nothing except the mountains and the snow, which are about the only company he wants right now.

“God _dammit!_ ” he snarls, falling unceremoniously to his knees. He punches the snow caked ground a few times for good measure. Why is everything so fucked up? Why is _he_ so fucked up?

Time passes, but probably not much. Tweek stays on the ground, which isn't the best idea, as the snow is soaking his jeans, but he can't bring himself to care. He only wants to dissolve into the ground. That'd be best for everyone.

“Whoa,” a familiar voice says. Tweek looks up to see the last person he expected.

“C-Craig?”

“Your dad told me you were out here,” Craig says. He still looks the same. Tall and disinterested, blue chullo crammed on his head. His hair's longer, shaggy, Tweek wants to say, because it's sticking out from underneath the hat. But as Craig stands there with his hands jammed in his pockets and his eyebrows raised, Tweek thinks he might be the best sight he's seen in ages.

“Yeah, I-I... I was getting f-fresh air.”

“Looks like you're crying.”

Tweek blinks, startled. He reaches up to his face and wipes under his eyes and—shit. He's crying, can feel the moisture even with his freezing hands. Cursing, he scours his face thoroughly, mentally berating himself for this being the first impression Craig has of him after so long apart.

“S-orry.”

He hears footsteps, looks up to see Craig has moved closer.

“Don't say sorry for crying,” Craig says. “Say you're sorry that it's so fucking cold, and you're making me stand out here and freeze my nonexistent ass off.”

“W-Well, sorry about t-that then,” Tweek mumbles.

“You should be. Shit's traumatizing.”

They're silent for a moment, and Tweek can feel Craig's eyes on him. Those piercing blue eyes that always seem to know too much about everything. Craig has always been one of the few people he didn't mind telling everything to, mainly because he knew Craig wouldn't give a shit. But at some point, the two of them became friends, and Tweek knows he hasn't acted much like one lately. That's probably why Craig is here, to tell him he's a sorry sack of shit for not replying to any of his letters or emails or texts.

“Wanna go for a drive?” Craig asks, still standing there with his hands in his pockets.

“I don't have a c-car,” Tweek says apologetically.

“Well then, it's your lucky day, coffee cake,” Craig says. “Because I happen to have one and it's still nice and warm from the drive here. Plus you look like you could use it.”

Tweek stands, looking uncertainly up at him. “What do I look like?”

“Like you're a fucking mess.”

Craig never was one for sugarcoating things. It's one of the reasons Tweek always liked him so much.

“Y-You're not wrong,” Tweek says.

“I'm never wrong.”

Tweek follows Craig to his car, a dark blue Mustang that looks like it hasn't been washed in ages. There's a crack in the windshield that looks like it'll spread someday soon, given the right incentive, and the passenger side front tire looks a little low. Tweek smiles to himself as he takes it all in. Craig hasn't changed much, and neither has the state in which he keeps his car.

Clamoring into the passenger seat, he takes in all the tiny details. The inside is immaculate, as always, because it's the only part Craig worries about. He's never outside the car long enough to give a shit about the way the paint looks. He only cares about his things being organized and his seats being the perfect amount of leaned back. As soon as Craig starts the car, a Killswitch Engage song starts blaring from the speakers, which he turns down.

“Are w-we going somewhere sp-specific?” Tweek asks.

“Is there anywhere specific to go in South Park?” Craig replies, pulling toward the street.

Tweek feels a little hurt at that, as it's probably the only place he'll ever be able to live with all the problems he's accumulated. He worries if he leaves, no one will know what to make of him and his twitching, will always just think he's on too many drugs.

“So you were crying,” Craig says, tactful as always. “Any specific reason?”

“No,” Tweek responds. “Any reason you're in town?”

“I dropped out of college.”

“W-Whoa, what?” Tweek asks, surprised. “Why?”

“Too boring, too stupid. Figured I'd come here till I get an actual plan. What better place to mull over my future than the one place on Earth where time doesn't exist?”

“I t-thought you liked boring.”

“I do, but it's gotta be certain levels of boring. If it's always the same, I feel trapped. And if it's too spontaneous, I feel overwhelmed. There's gotta be balance, otherwise it's just a constant level of monotony, and that's not for me.”

Tweek considers this while he chews on his bottom lip.

“B-But—aren't you worried? I mean, you just q-quit school. What did your parents say?”

“Not much of anything. Dad's a drop out too, so what could he even say? And Mom pretty much just thinks I'm the antichrist, but I'm _her_ antichrist, so that's about all that matters. Nothing I do surprises her anymore. I thought about getting a tattoo of a face on the back of my head and freaking her out, but she wouldn't even bat an eyelash,” Craig says. “Besides, they still have Ruby to make them proud. I'm too busy trying to figure out what I want to care about what they want.”

“Y-You make it seem so easy,” Tweek mumbles.

“It is easy. You just figure out what you want, and then you do it.”

“But everyone else-”

“Fuck everyone else. It's your life.”

Tweek just shakes his head, because Craig's not getting it. The CD in the player starts to skip over the same line over and over again, and Craig reaches out to slap it. Tweek's laughing before he can stop himself.

“You s-still haven't fixed that?” he asks, referring to the CD player. Craig messed it up by going too fast over a few potholes back in high school. Sometimes the CD's skip, and some don't play at all.

“Doesn't bother me,” Craig says. “It's just a quirk to my car.”

“Something you can fix, though.”

“Just because it's imperfect doesn't mean it needs to be _fixed._ ” Craig looks over at him. “I can fix it, and then the crack in the windshield, and then wash my car, but what does it matter? None of that stuff affects how it _runs._ It's only a problem to other people who don't know shit about my car.”

Tweek makes it a point to look out the window, unwilling to keep looking at him.

“I hear you've been shutting out Clyde and Token, too-” Craig starts.

“So what?” Tweek snaps, whirling to face him. “It's n-not like they get it. What's even the point of talking to them? 'Oh, hey, Token, y-you're still rich and still have a bright future. And Clyde, you're s-still handsome and good at sports and probably in l-love for the umpteenth time this semester. And here I am, i-in the same place I always was, too fucked up to change'.”

“And me?” Craig asks, unflinching. “Why can't you talk to me?”

“Because,” Tweek murmurs, looking at his lap. “Because you _do_ get it, and sometimes t-that's worse.”

“Goddammit, Tweek,” Craig sighs, passing through an intersection. “You can't go around cutting people off. None of us give a shit about your problems. We give a shit about _you._ And that goes double for me, you stupid shit.”

“B-But,” Tweek protests, face already helplessly red, “I'm never going to be 'alright'. I'm never going to—be able to just wake up and not feel like the world is ending soon. I'm always g-gonna twitch and stutter and—“

“Does it look like I give a fuck if you twitch or not?” Craig scoffs. “I've spent the past year and a half around normal people. You're a breath of fresh air, if you ask me.” He smirks. “And I like your stuttering.”

“You're so weird.”

“I'm super sassy and crescent fresh.”

“No.”

“Yup.”

Tweek notices they've turned around, and are heading back to the coffee shop.

“T-Thank you,” he says quietly.

“For what?”

“Not just telling me w-what everyone else does. That everything will be okay.”

“That's bullshit to me anyway,” Craig says. “I can't tell you that when I don't know your definition of 'okay'. Everyone has different standards.”

“Yeah,” Tweek agrees. “I wonder how different ours are?”

“Heh. Way different, dude.”

“W-What makes you say that?”

“Because by my standards, you're definitely more than 'okay'. You're the one who matters.”

They come to a stop outside the coffee shop, and Tweek opens the door as slowly as he can, unwilling to go back to his shift. He looks over at Craig, who's looking right back at him almost expectantly.

“I don't get a kiss?” he asks, and Tweek nearly chokes on thin air.

“W-What?! A _kiss?_ ”

“Man, I totally wooed the fuck out of you. I deserve a kiss.”

“No way!”

“Come on, coffee bean, just a little smooch for the road.”

“Don't c-call me that, you asshole!”

“Does that mean I can't grind you later?”

“ _Craig!”_

Craig grins at him and leans forward again, closing his eyes. “You have till the count of three. At that point, I'm posting everywhere that you're a total dork, and I'm telling Clyde to beat your ass when he comes to visit.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Tweek groans, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to Craig's lips, which seems to pacify him. Tweek hurriedly scrambles from the car, and then looks over his shoulder. “S-So...I'll see you later?”

“You know it. You'll see me tonight. I'm coming over and I expect you to write lengthy letters to both Clyde and Token, apologizing for being a shitty friend. I'll read over them and grade your skills,” Craig says while looking through his CD case.

“Okay then,” Tweek says, turning to go back inside. He tries to contain his smile, doesn't quite manage it. His dad looks happy to see him, mainly because of the growing line in front of the counter.

“You look better,” he smiles. “Are you alright now?”

“No,” Tweek admits. “But I will be.”

And as he begins to count down the hours until he'll be with Craig again, being graded on his lettering skills to their other two best friends, he feels for the first time that he actually means it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Click [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=53IWNZereUM) for the song Craig was listening to. It's ironic, in context.


End file.
